


Don't forget to pack a toothbrush when leaving for a daring, heroic rescue

by dorky (dorcas_gustine)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Season/Series 15 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcas_gustine/pseuds/dorky
Summary: You might need it at some point.





	Don't forget to pack a toothbrush when leaving for a daring, heroic rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I wrote to try and get a grip on these two. It's supposed to happen between ep 18 and 19 of Season 15, so spoilers?
> 
> Not betaed and English isn't my first language, so feel free to point out any mistakes.

He finds Grif in one of the bunks of the ship. He's managed to fold and wedge himself in the tiny space between the bunkbeds and the lockers, which isn't a small feat for his considerable body mass and the fact that he's wearing bulky armor. In fact, only his helmet is off, clutched in his hands.

He doesn't seem to have noticed Simmons yet, only stares at his helmet with a pensive look. As they're in the relative safety of the ship, he unlatches his own helmet too. If the others need him, they can use the shipwide systems. With a hiss the lock releases and Simmons breathes in the dry, recycled air. It's cool against the sweat on his face and he shivers involuntarily at the contact. He runs a hand through his unruly hair, the curls made even more unmanageable by the sweat.

He's pretty sure Grif must have noticed him, while not exactly noisy, he's certainly made no attempt to be silent. In spite of this, Grif is still staring down at the helmet in his lap as if entranced by his own reflection.

Grif jumped onto a ship with a guy that terrified him to execute a daring and, even more surprisingly, somewhat successful rescue. His timely reappearance just as the Grif-shape absence at Simmons's side was becoming a black hole sucking all of his thoughts and attention away from the happenings around him is nothing short of miraculous. Frankly, Simmons would doubt his eyes if he didn't have an artificial one that instantly recognized Grif and provided all sorts of info on his vitals (elevated heart rate, signs of malnourishment - _Grif_! Starving! - possible signs of withdrawal).

Indeed, Grif doesn't look well. His hair is greasier than usual with dirt and sweat and the bangs plastered on his forehead are cut in a jagged line just before they reach his eyes. His eyes look bruised by lack of sleep and he looks pale, of a pastyness that comes more from sickness rather than being inside away from the sun.

And yet, Simmons's extremities that are still flesh tingle at the sight of him, there's a prickle at the back of his neck as a drop of sweat that has nothing with heat travels down his spine and leaves a trail of excitement mixed with anxiety. He's only ever experienced something similar a long time ago, at the sight of his father's secretary wearing high heels and a pencil dress, and as much as he's missed Grif, the appearance, or the smell, of the two aren't even comparable and yet it's not really a choice at all.

His teenage self - Simmons from only a few months past, too - would be horrified, but Grif at his side again is a glad sight, the sense of relief so overwhelming it makes his knees weak and his throat choke around the word so the question comes out feeble, unsure.

"G-Grif?"

Grif tilts his head to the side in a puzzled manner, though Simmons can't be sure of what's going through his mind as he's still folded over the helmet. 

"Hey, Simmons," he responds, the tone matter of fact as if it were a meaningless exchange of pleasantries rather than a greeting and then, unexpectedly, he blows a raspberry. "Siiiimmoooonsss," he draws the name out as if he were trying to learn a new sound. He still hasn't looked his way.

Simmons falls more than sits down on the bottom bed. There isn't much space and he's tall, the back of his head smacks painfully against the metal frame and he hisses. Despite the noise and the ensuing curses, Grif still doesn't look up.

"Aren't you with Locus? I think I left you there. Everybody's gone with him because Washington needs help. Everyone's gone and I'm here. Again. Stupid stupid-" Grif thumps his head against the helmet once, twice. What the hell is wrong with him, really. (Elevated heart rate, his cyborg vision tells him, because it’s probably noticed the blood vessels pumping on Grif's or some other creepy shit, he might even have X-Ray or thermal vision and not know.) "Fucking Donut needs a new coat of paint and I still haven't pumped - bow chicka bow wow! Shut _up_ , Tucker! - Church and I left them- you- them with fucking Locus."

"Grif!"

Grif starts and whips his head to finally, _finally_ look at him. Even then, his eyes take a moment too long to focus on Simmons. "Oh. Hey, Simmons," this time it's uncertain, almost fearful, but Grif is talking to _him_. "You're here." Grif's eyes dart to the helmet that jumped from his hands when he startled and has rolled away to stop against a locker, right next to Grif's left boot. 

"Oh," he looks at Simmons, guiltily, then back to the helmet. "Right. That's not- they-" he shakes his head, confused.

"Sit down," the words leave him in a rush and a second later he feels his face burning. Grif blinks owlishly at him and then points at himself. Sitting down. Simmons's cheeks must be ablaze by now. It's a wonder his eyebrows don't catch fire, really. "Here, I meant. Next to me. On the- on the bed. Next to me."

Wordlessly Grif gets up, crosses the room and flops down in a casual sprawl next to him, once again managing to lounge out in the bulky armor. He scratches his head, making his hair stick out in improbable, gravity-defying directions. "So," he starts, then stops. He bounces his left leg, his boots making sharp sounds as it hits the metal bed frame at regular intervals. "I'm-"

"Don't." 

This up close, Simmons can see just how bloodshot and glassy his eyes are, how deep the shadows under them. Simmons has put them there, and whatever that scary talking to himself, making voices bit was, Simmons has done that too. Grif is the less demanding person he knows, and yet Simmons has still managed to fail to meet his expectations, has failed him. Unlike Grif, however, who hasn’t hesitated as soon as he saw them, the apology remains stuck on the tip of his tongue, trapped within the cage of his teeth.

"I- you were-"

Grif just blinks up at him, with a confused frown. Maybe Simmons should ask him to put his helmet back on. Maybe he should put on his own. He's not used to seeing any other emotion on Grif’s face other than boredom and mild annoyance and, occasionally, fear - for bats and his own life - but in the past few hours, whenever he's glanced at Grif in those moments he didn't have his helmet on, he's found an unnamed mix of wonder and sheer relief staring back.

"I'm- You deserved it," he manages finally, sneaking a sideways glance at Grif, catching the exact moment his face falls. A strangled sound escapes Simmons's throat, his constipated sheep impression, as Grif calls it. " _Retirement_! I meant retirement!"

Grif's expression clears somewhat, but his lips remain pressed in a thin line, his brows drawn in a thoughtful frown. It unsettles him, this new, genuine Grif, his rawness. 

Simmons looks down at his own helmet, catches the glimpse of his cybernetic eye in the reflection on the visor, his organic eye wide and panicky and ponders once again putting it on. Grif's own is still on the other side of the room, however, and while not too far away, getting to it would mean standing and Simmons isn't sure that he'll be able to continue this conversation or whatever they are having right now if he leaves the bed.

"You deserved it, we all did."

Grif makes a thoughtful sound. "But you were right to leave," his tone makes it sound like a question. "I mean, those guys are total dickbags."

"Yeeaahh."

"Anyway, it's probably a good thing Donut left, he'd have probably set the lake on fire next."

"Definitely."

"And I think Carolina just isn't made for retirement."

"Fuck no."

And there Grif falls silent and looks down at his hands in his lap. Simmons follows his gaze and they both stare in silence as he tries unsuccessfully to scratch the paint off a dent on his gauntlet.

"Grif-"

"I missed-"

"Don't-"

"But-"

" _Don't_!" His voice comes out in high screech that makes them both jump, too loud in their small shared space. "I don't wanna hear it. You'll make it worse."

Grif makes an outraged sound, plants an elbow into Simmons's flank and _shoves_ , almost toppling him sideways. "You asshole! The quiet was nice at first, but then I couldn't sleep! _Me_! There was nothing to do and I even _cleaned_! But then there was nothing more to clean and then I had to learn Spanish because otherwise Lopez couldn't speak, but in the end it was a stupid idea because volleyball-you are real jerks and fucking hated me and at least you-you, flesh-you, well flesh-and-metal-and-wobbly-bits-you don't hate me all the time and sometimes give me snacks, but at least I had someone to talk to and Simmons, I missed you, I'm sorry I left, you should've dragged me with you, don't leave me behind, yeah? Don't leave-"

"Can I kiss you now?"

Grif stops so abruptly his lips freeze in the shaping of the word 'me'. He stares up at him with eyes so round it's a wonder his eyeballs don't just pop out. Not that Simmons isn't any less startled by his abrupt question, but Grif was spewing senseless things that were about to cross into dangerous territory, about to define this… vague, nameless _thing_ that's been between them for years and so he's panicked and just

Oh god.

And who even knows when was the last time Grif brushed his teeth?

"…what." Grif says. "Did you just."

"Uhhh…"

"Did you just politely ask to ki-"

" _Well_! I guess it's time I lea-" 

The impact of his head on the bed frame can probably be heard throughout the entire ship, likely even as far as the closest solar system. It sets off a shockwave that rattles his teeth and then rolls down his body, making his knees wobble, dropping him in an undignified sprawl onto the bed. 

He only has the strength to let out a pathetic whine. The fingers on his flesh hand twitch.

"Nice going, _Dick_."

"S-Shut up, fatass." 

Is that his voice? Why does he sound like he's about to cry? 

His head gives a painful throb.

Who is he kidding? He _is_ about to cry.

Gentle - but still gauntleted, military life has ruined them - fingers carefully search the area around where he hit his head. They probe around slowly, avoiding areas when Simmons hisses softly. After a minute they're gone.

"S-So?"

Grif shrugs. "What do I know about medicine?" 

“Asshole.”

Grif gives him a long look, but Simmons can’t quite read his expression. It may be because of this new Grif, or perhaps the fact that he can barely see anything through his squinting eyes, blurry with unshed tears.

Grif’s finger absently taps against Simmons’s chest piece. And then it stops. “I could kiss it better?”

“Wha-” he starts, but cuts off and almost swallows his own tongue as he sees Grif leaning down towards him and oh shit it’s happening and-

Grif’s chest armor bumps into his, unbalancing him and making Simmons’s teeth rattle at the impact. With a strangled ‘fu—’ Grif drops and barely manages to catch himself with his left arm, while he elbows Simmons’s arm with his right, probably causing damage to himself, as it’s his metal one. 

The kiss is more of a falling of mouth upon mouth than anything else, their lips impacting sort of painfully, their noses - both impressive specimens - squishing against each other. Grif’s eyes are closed, but Simmons’ are wide open, which he supposes is rude, but he can’t help but look at Grif, who’s now so close he’s all he can see.

Grif’s breath hitches - elevated heart rate, and climbing, his cyborg parts tell him - and he jerks back, but gets tangled in the sheets and just sort of falls sideways, half on, half off of Simmons’s metal arm.

He’s staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, as if he hadn’t just been the one to literally drop one on Simmons. 

“T-That was,” Simmons desperately wants to say nice, but the top of his head is still throbbing, their teeth have bumped together painfully, their armors got in the way and Grif hasn't indeed brushed his teeth in a while. “That’s not where it hurts.”

Grif’s expression morphs into a flat stare. “You’re such a fucking nerd,” he snorts, then he sighs and hangs his head. “And that was fucking awkward.”

“Shit yeah,” Simmons gingerly scratches his aching head. He supposes it’s sort of his fault - if fault is the word he wants here - after all he’s the one who asked for a kiss. He sneaks a glance at Grif, whose face is scrunched up in a downward frown. “I suppose practice makes perfect.”

Grif rolls off his arm with a disgusted sound, but he remains close. “ _You_ would say tha—” Their arms are touching and even though sensations in his metal arm are limited, Simmons feels him stiffening as realization sinks in. “Oh. You mean…?”

“I mean, if you—”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“So.”

“Okay.”

They lie back and stare at the bottom of the top bunk as if it were a night like the many they’ve spent in Blood Gulch. Staring at nothing and at the stars, talking about random crap and occasionally tossing rocks at Sarge's window who couldn't see them from their vantage point.

"Hey, Grif."

"Yeah?"

"I missed you, too,” Grif makes gagging noises, but he’s gripping Simmons’s hand tightly. “But I won’t k-kiss you until you brush your teeth.”

“Nerd.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm twinkletwinkleunclefloyd on tumblr if you do that sort of thing.


End file.
